


Some Kind of Agreement

by SkinIsCrawling



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Come Eating, Explicit Sexual Content, Knotting, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Smut, and yeahhh that's the whole story, defiling ancient sarcophagi, lacroix gets wrecked by beckett's knotted d
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-19 01:05:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19346416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinIsCrawling/pseuds/SkinIsCrawling
Summary: LaCroix really wants that sarcophagus open.





	Some Kind of Agreement

**Author's Note:**

> so im no stranger to smut but i feel like this is the biggest pile of meaningless filth ive done, sorry everyone :^)

A clock ticked slowly. Distant voices murmured. Fire blazed, wind howled, rain pattered upon the window but, save for such noises, LaCroix's office was silent.

That was not to say, however, that it was empty. The Ankaran Sarcophagus had finally been delivered to his possession, and it had brought a curious, useful guest. LaCroix straightened his cuffs and glanced at the other man where he pored over the artefact, his fingers steepled to his mouth in thought.

To the world of Kindred, Beckett was an... enigma. His reputation, and the whispers following his arrival, had moulded him into more of an illusory figure than a person - a byproduct of the strangeness that had enveloped the city rather than a creature of flesh and vitae. But there he stood, very much real, staring intensely at the surface of the sarcophagus as though every speck of dust was worth studying.

To LaCroix, who had little interest in any cult of supernatural celebrity, Beckett was something far simpler - he was a wealth of extremely desirable information stood only a bare few meters away. The fledgling was either dallying in his mission to find some way to open the thing, or perhaps simply dead; though the latter would save him the trouble of taking care of _that_ loose end himself, it brought him no closer to answering his prize's maddening siren call. And so, Beckett had become his brightest hope for unlocking the sarcophagus within the next decade, convinced as he was that it was nothing but an antiquity - old fool, could he not _feel_ its presence? However, despite LaCroix having been gracious enough to give him access to what was now his most precious possession, Beckett was obviously more interested in historical navel-gazing than providing anything in return; the knowledge that he had given LaCroix thus far had been of no use for his goals. Worthless academics. Did he think he was fooling him, this exceedingly renowned Kindred who told him he did not know how to open a box?

He would wring whatever he was withholding from him somehow. Diplomacy had stagnated, and violence was not a risk he would take _just yet_. His options were few, but LaCroix was nothing if not resourceful.

The Ventrue's fingers darted to his neck, checking his tie was straight. He'd considered going without a tie for this evening, but had decided that would be too overt - though he had chosen a red shirt, for a change. Red was supposed to be titillating, wasn't it? This kind of thing had come so naturally in years past, when he'd been a fresh cadaver leaving knives in the backs of many a powerful man, but now he found unease sat in the place of brash confidence. He had no idea whether Beckett held any interest in men, or whether he would have aged past any human drive for sex altogether. However, as the clock continued to tick onward, and as the sarcophagus remained tightly sealed, LaCroix was willing to grasp at even the most futile of chances. He smoothed his hair into its ideal arrangement before he stood, eyes fixed upon the Gangrel.

Beckett was a rather attractive man - tall, but not too long of limb, possessing a sharp and clever face, his body broad enough that his long black hair did not paint him effeminate. Not that it would have mattered even if he had been an ugly, marred brute - sometimes, sacrifices had to be made for greatness - but it would make the affair a great deal more bearable.

Knowing Beckett to be rather astute for his clan, LaCroix kept a subtlety in how he composed himself, projecting only a certain sort of welcoming serenity rather than anything too flagrant as he approached. Beckett's gaze flickered upon him for but a moment, before he decided that LaCroix was not worthy of careful examination.

"Did you need something?" asked Beckett, before LaCroix could begin to speak.

"Mm, forgive me, I am only curious," he said, arranging his face into something that might pass for bashfulness. "You must understand, with someone as... distinguished as yourself, the intrigue your work holds." 

"Of course." Beckett smiled sardonically, his eyes sharp little embers behind his spectacles. "You do demonstrate a deep passion for _archaeology_." 

He made no effort to hide his pointed, knowing tone, but LaCroix did not let his poise slip in return. "Indeed." He allowed his hand to rest upon the engraved metal, running his fingers across its lid... was he imagining its slight vibration, or was it its potency that he felt radiating from within? He awaited something, _anything_ , more from the man before him, but Beckett had returned to staring at the surface of the sarcophagus, scribbling rapidly into an old, leather-bound notebook. LaCroix cleared his throat. "I would also like to remind you that anything you find, even that which seems insignificant, is of great interest to me."

"Mm. And, as discussed, I will update you with my findings. Would you be so kind as to move your hand - you are blocking my view." 

LaCroix did not move his hand. He took a step closer, squaring his shoulders in such a way that might force Beckett to acknowledge him. "Perhaps we could come to some sort of agreement," he blurted. Beckett craned his head back around to him, and regarded him with arched brows.

"An _agreement_ ," he echoed. "LaCroix, meaning no offense, I have little interest in anything you might be able offer me beyond our already agreed terms. I also have no desire to entangle myself in the petty politics of this city, so if you would kindly stand aside-"

"I believe I might have something to offer you, on some level."

He shifted into the space between Beckett and the sarcophagus.

He had steeled himself for this moment, ran it through in his mind many times, but no amount of theoretical preparation could have readied him for the daunting sensation of the elder pressed so closely. When the silence crawled onward, he unbuttoned his jacket, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He called his vitae to render the air around himself... softer, warmer, more beckoning- he knew that Beckett would not be hopelessly lost to his disciplines like an unwitting neonate, but perhaps it would make his intentions clearer. "If you catch my meaning," he added, voice soft.

Beckett cocked his head, face conveying a bemused curiosity above all else. Whether that was a positive sign or not, LaCroix could not say. He slowly removed his spectacles and folded them, setting them down upon the coffin. He had not noticed, before then, the slight point of Beckett's toughened nails, and without a barrier of glass, the Gangrel's eyes possessed a fierce intensity. LaCroix ignored the urge to look elsewhere.

"I believe I do, though I can't say that it was the turn I expected this conversation to take."

"Do excuse my forthrightness - I simply don't wish to waste either of our time. If you are uninterested, I will not attempt to sway you."

"How very pragmatic of you." Beckett set his book down, a wry smile playing at his lips. "I suppose there would be little harm in a quick distraction," he said, placing a hand behind him to lean on the sarcophagus, looming over the Ventrue and bringing their chests not quite close enough to touch. Relief and fear flooded him in equal parts as he realised that this would proceed as he had envisioned. He felt a reluctance to touch the elder, as though he might burn his hand away to ash. "Well, then?" asked the Gangrel, a challenge in his voice. 

A challenge, and an invitation.

He willed his hands to cease their ever so slight tremble as he knelt before him, the easy submission running against every instinct belonging to both his self and clan. Such instincts were only exacerbated by the _allure_ he found in the action, the fact that a deeper, more guarded part of him enjoyed the assured satisfaction spread across Beckett's face. This was a mere task to complete and bring him that much closer to a very worthy goal, he assured himself.

"Oh, you were being genuine," remarked Beckett.

"Of course I was," he replied, catching his tone before it could turn testy. Did the man think him incapable of even _this_? Casting away any remaining shreds of hesitance, he ran his hands up his thighs with a firm confidence and felt that, already, the other man was stirring with interest. Good; he was not simply toying with him.

A finger traced his jawline, and a thumb rested upon his lips. He could feel the sharpness of his deceptively innocuous-looking claws against his skin. "This angle rather flatters you, LaCroix," he said, fiddling with buckles and buttons of his worn clothes with his other hand. And just like that, any semblance of preamble was over; after exposing a flash of the pleasingly sinewed flesh of his stomach and hips, Beckett had wasted no time in withdrawing his cock. Neither of them were there for the foreplay, he supposed.

LaCroix opened his mouth, briefly darting a teasing tongue over the finger in front of his lips, before turning a scrutinous eye between Beckett's legs. He froze at the sight.

"I do hope I haven't put you off," said Beckett, though his smirk was still firmly in place.

 _Monstrous_. That was the only word that came to LaCroix's mind as he looked at the prick presented before him. His wide, unusually reddened shaft tapered down to a somewhat pointed end, a sleek contrast to the odd bulge that rested at the base, just before it disappeared into a thick tangle of hair. Utterly bestial beneath his clothes - he should have expected as much of a Gangrel.

Perhaps he'd underestimated his own deviance, judging from the twinge he felt in his cock as he stared.

"One simple mistake as a fledgling, and I bare this mark for eternity," sighed Beckett. "I assure you, it does still function the same... more or less."

LaCroix often prided himself on his ability to fill a room with some compelling speech or another, but here, words eluded him. It would be a terrible shame to ruin this arrangement by causing offense, and so he simply settled on a breathy "I see."

He grasped Beckett's cock in his hands, feeling its weight on his fingers, the slightly smoother texture than he'd expected. Beckett exhaled quietly, a sound that only drove him onward; ignoring the unusual base for now, LaCroix traced his tongue delicately around the tip. The taste was unremarkable, at least. He braced his hands on the Gangrel's hips and moved his lips gently, taking only the head into his mouth, still unsure how to handle this oddity.

"Rather coy for a man who propositioned me no more than a minute ago," noted Beckett, a hint of sourness in his tone. "You did not strike me as one for half-measures." Before he could give any response - verbal or otherwise - long fingers raked through the carefully groomed hairs at the back of his skull. It was all the warning he was graced with. Beckett thrust deep into his mouth, into his throat, nearly setting him gagging in ways he had not for many years.

The satisfaction in Beckett's eyes only grew as he stared down at him, pumping his hips forward to thoroughly take advantage of his face. The weight of a thick cock down his throat was not unwelcome, but this passive, graceless humiliation - he could not allow that. Relaxing his throat and lunging forward to meet the set pace, he pulled his lips back and forth along his shaft, enough to make Beckett's smirk falter and his eyes narrow into something more predatory. Some well-intentioned part of LaCroix's psyche was screaming at the complete blockage of his windpipe - old instincts that didn't understand it was rather late to be worrying about such things - but the sensation also sparked a yearning in his gut.

"Yes, like that. This sort of enthusiasm suits you much more," said Beckett, his voice having gained a coarseness to it. He caressed the side of his hair as he might a favoured pet - LaCroix only hollowed his cheeks, and continued. His lips rested at the swell at the root for a moment, and he caught the deep, musk-like scent of the Gangrel's body. "Mn... enjoyable as this all is, might your mouth be all you are offering?"

Ah, such presumption. He let Beckett's cock fall from his mouth, its taste lingering on his tongue. Wetness beaded at its tapered end, and he smothered the urge to lap at it - this was a necessity, not an indulgence.

"What I am offering you depends on what more you might have in mind."

"I wish to fuck you," said Beckett bluntly.

He sighed. It wasn't as though such a request was unexpected, and he had freed enough time to account for this possibility. He stood to redirect this to elsewhere, but Beckett had plans of his own, apparently; he pressed his body up against LaCroix's a moment later, pinning him against the sarcophagus. The pressure of his own arousal was suddenly made very clear indeed as Beckett's wet cock rubbed up against him through his trousers, leaking an obscene trail onto his suit. He gasped at the friction, the closeness - _a necessity_ , he reminded himself - as he fumbled to withdraw the small bottle he'd brought in the pocket of his jacket.

"Is that a yes?" asked Beckett, still rutting onto him. This man was actually going to make him say it, wasn't he?

But he released any sense of trepidation at Beckett's simpering tone, and instead smiled graciously. "It is."

The Gangrel had rather large fangs, Sebastian saw, as his lips split into a grin. "Good."

The taller man seized his hips, large hands digging into his flesh and turning him around. They were going to do this here, then, right on top of this thing; Sebastian had no objections if Beckett did not. He wondered whether whatever lurked within would know - why did that thought carry such a sickening thrill? His hands braced against the weathered metal as Beckett held him in place, one hand on his hip and the other wandering to grope at his body. There was a formidable precision behind his strength as he wrenched aside his clothes, exposing him with efficiency. LaCroix arched his back, tilted his head just so; tried to give himself fully to the motion to smother the arousing sense of vulnerability that the elder vampire's control was awakening within him.

The lubricant was snatched from Sebastian's hand.

Beckett hummed appreciatively as he looked his body over, clawed tips of his nails skimming his skin as his fingers grabbed into his flesh. To LaCroix's surprise, he reached around to lightly grasp his cock with slick fingers - he canted his hips forwards into the touch, but Beckett withdrew with a low, mocking chuckle to trace over his legs and hips once more.

"If I may be so bold-" said Sebastian, raising his voice to drown any tremors. 

"You may."

The Prince balked. He had not _truly_ been asking permission, and Beckett knew as much... yet, he felt such a _surge_ at such words, their implication, stoked by the unwavering firmness of the Gangrel's grip. "I have... much on my agenda to attend."

"Oh, I am sure you do, Sebastian."

A choked noise was torn from his throat as a finger - no, that must have been two - thrust deep inside of him, nails narrowly avoiding catching on sensitive flesh. LaCroix clenched his hands and hissed lowly as his shoulders sagged. The fullness was enjoyable, and he was loath to admit that the rough sting was welcome, too. The Gangrel pumped his fingers lazily only a scant few more times before he was forcing another finger inside, clearly more focused on stretching him open than giving him any enjoyment out of it. He brushed against pleasurable spots regardless, sending him muffling gasps into his fist. All the while, Beckett's cock rested flush against his back - a reminder, or quite possibly a warning.

"Hm. I think I prefer this angle even more." _And there are those who would accuse_ me _of enjoying the sound of my own voice._ He tilted his head around and grabbed the scholar's glistening cock, pulling it closer between his legs.

"I'm glad to hear it," he muttered. There was little point in flattery or charm when Beckett was so clearly enjoying his shame, instead. His fingers played at the tip of his prick, moving to smear precome down his shaft. He saw, over his shoulder, how his control wavered in return - the elder's brow furrowed, and a feral spark lit in his eyes. A small victory. Beckett spoke less, from then on, and instead groaned lowly as he pulled his fingers away. The sudden emptiness was frustrating, but not to last; an amalgamation of dread and excitement befell him when he felt the press of his cockhead against his hole.

His dread had not been misplaced. Beckett pushed inwards, spreading him wide - no, _splitting him in two_. His fingers clawed into the lid of the sarcophagus as he sunk inside, a slow but unstoppable penetration that left him simultaneously gasping in pain and reeling for more. He clasped a hand to his mouth to hush any _awful_ sounds that might have escaped as he felt the base's bulge force its way inside.

Beckett lowered himself when he rested fully inside of him, a lock of his hair caressing against his face as he nuzzled and inhaled deeply into Sebastian's neck, broad chest pressed firmly into his back. Large, sharp fangs brushed against the scruff of his neck - he would not bite him, of course, but it served as a reminder of the sheer, dangerous force of the man who had begun to slowly rut into him. As if the hand on his hip and cock filling him beyond words were not reminder enough.

"You're experienced with this sort of thing, I take it," growled Beckett, a dangerous hunger rising in his voice. "You won't mind it a touch rougher."

Sebastian struggled to piece together a reply to the half-question, but Beckett was not awaiting his answer. He shoved the Ventrue down with fingers wound tightly in his hair, forcing his face to the sarcophagus. And then, he truly began to thrust, reaching so very _deep_ and setting a pleasurable edge to the pain that tore through his body. His legs were growing weak, he realised, and his body was yielding - yielding and useful for the creature that was fucking him without restraint. His own fingers twitched against his lips as he was pulled back and forth, with unneeded, involuntary breaths spilling over them, some becoming sharp moans.

The throb of his own cock was unbearable where it ached and leaked between his thighs, and the occasional friction when it caught on the cold metal was harsh and teasing. Above him, he could hear the grunts and growls of the man defiling him becoming more frequent, felt his thrusts stuttering and noticed his grip in his hair growing lax. He must have been close to finishing, to claiming him even more so than he already had, filling him... LaCroix grasped his own cock with ungainly fingers as he doubted Beckett would do him such a kindness, crying out with relief at the first few strokes. The stimulation both inside and out was all too much, too much-

" _I did not give you permission to do that,_ " snarled Beckett, a hand darting away from his hair to instead grab his wrist and press it to the lid. He gasped in horror at the man's abject cruelty, and then continued to cry out as his pace grew yet more brutal. His thoughts were hazy enough that he did not even register that Beckett was not the one to allow him anything within his own office - instead, he prostrated, tightened around him, begged the man for mercy in ways that would be clear even without true coherency.

Beckett moaned, nails clawing into LaCroix's wrist and waist as he slammed them together and his hips finally stilled, spending deep inside of him. The sensation was welcome in its familiarity; or, so it was, until he felt a unexpected swell against his guts. With the tip of Beckett's cock throbbing against a rather sensitive spot, something _expanded_ inside of him; the yet further stretch burned as their bodies were sordidly tied, and he was wreaked with shudders as the pain and pleasure reached an incomprehensible apex. It took him some time to realise he had finished without a single touch to his cock as he slumped, dazed, onto the sarcophagus.

Beckett brought clarity back in one fell swoop. "You've sullied the subject of my work," he tutted. His voice still held a ragged edge to it, but it was certainly more composed than it had been, and great deal more composed than Sebastian felt. "Not very respectful, is it? _Lick it up_ ."

" _What?_ That's hardly necessary-" he sputtered, breaking off into a moan as the Gangrel took a step back to reposition him, bringing his face above where his seed had, indeed, spattered across the ornate surface. His cock remained hard and huge within him - had he not yet finished?

"Not necessary, no. But it would please me _greatly_ to see." 

And what was the point of this, if not to please yet another sneering elder?

He leant down and, as much as he could whilst Beckett still had him speared, ran his tongue over the surface, taking the dust and bitter seed into his mouth. He knew that he would be retching it back up later, but he willed it to settle for the time being. For as long as Beckett needed in order to be satisfied. His hand returned to LaCroix's hair as he watched, stroking gently rather than gripping harshly, as though wordlessly praising him.

"Wonderful," murmured Beckett, dislodging his cock as it softened at last; he shuddered as seed dripped down his thighs in its wake. "Ah, but one last thing, if you would be so kind?"

When he turned to look at Beckett, he was taken once more by the burning intensity of his eyes, and the assuredness of his smirk. He held his softening cock in his hand, coagulant trails running down its length, and LaCroix knew what further filthy indignity he was requesting.

_A necessity_ , he told himself once more. 

His weakened legs bent easily as he returned to his knees and lapped the fluids from his spent prick. The taste of lubricant was a foul addition to the comparatively pleasant undertone of flesh, and it was an even greater struggle to allow it to fester within his stomach rather than immediately have his body purge it. Beckett's fingers did not leave his hair as he traced every bump and vein with his tongue, swallowing whatever spend was not currently dripping down his own thighs. He pressed his mouth harder against the flesh, sensitive in postcoitus, and took satisfaction in how Beckett flinched.

Though grateful that the Gangrel did not harden again, he still felt a faint sense of loss when he pushed him away. Within that single motion, it was over, with Beckett tucking his cock away and straightening his shirt before returning to look at the sarcophagus, utterly unperturbed. LaCroix joined him as quickly as he could manage, though the rawness pulsing through his body made it a great effort to rearrange himself into something halfway presentable, and to find a mite of his dignity along the way.

Miasma still drifted over his mind and there was a lightness to his body as he stood, similar to the times when he exerted his disciplines overmuch. He had never imagined that after two centuries, he would still know what _weakness_ felt like. He straightened his spine and draped himself in his heavy coat, buttoning it with jerking fingers.

"My thanks," said Beckett, returning his spectacles to his face and picking up his book. "That was... unexpected, but not unwelcome."

"Quite," replied LaCroix, offering the scholar a small, pinched smile. "And so..."

"Yes?"

"As we discussed earlier, any information you have regarding the sarcophagus and its contents would be greatly appreciated."

"And as I have told you, several times, I will continue to update you on my findings."

A chill ran through LaCroix's body, and he felt his polite smile waver. "We had an agreement," he hissed slowly.

"Oh, Sebastian, don't say you were only _using_ me, and for information I do not even possess? You do break my heart so cruelly," replied Beckett. "I made no agreement. You rubbed against me like a particularly lonesome alleycat, and I acted accordingly."

LaCroix's eyes widened, a livid fever flooding his every cold vein. His lips pulled back as he lunged towards the Gangrel. "How _dare_ you-?!" he snarled - but before he could move any further, Beckett grasped him by the jaw. His entire body was stilled underneath that hand's solid, immovable strength.

"Now just _what_ were you going to attempt?" he asked, quietly and calmly. The red edges of his vision ebbed, somewhat, as Beckett's gaze brushed over him, surveying him with one raised brow. "Pretty, stupid little thing. You're going to get yourself killed."

He should have continued to bare his teeth. He should have shouted his Sheriff, should have banished this accursed historian from his entire domain under threat of a blood hunt. And yet he only averted his gaze when Beckett released him, gripping tightly onto the edge of the sarcophagus. A clean stripe shone where his tongue had ran along its surface, and below it ran the drying seed that he had missed.

"Do not forget that you are in my domain," he said finally, raising his voice against the hoarseness of his throat. "Watch such words, and yourself."

"Of course. My apologies," sighed Beckett. "If that was all?"

He narrowed his eyes, close to spitting that _no, that most certainly was_ not _all_ , but it was a lost cause, wasn't it? He would not wrench anything but insolence from the man, so what point was there in deigning him further words? Body tight with frustration and a slight lingering pain, he turned with a disgusted huff, and stalked back to his desk.

He would have this thing open before long, and this sort of ordeal would be far behind him. When he was blazing with enough terrible power to rend the flesh from his foes and crush their bones beneath his feet, every variety of indignity he had suffered to claw his way to triumph - all of these stained memories - they would pale from his mind and blow away like so much smouldering ash. He tapped his fingers on his desk as he looked back to the scholar; perhaps he, too, could be caught in his wake. Oh, how he would _relish_ the chance to burn him, or flay him; the exact method was of little importance, so long as his death was slow enough for him to reflect upon the grave mistake he made this night.

Beckett tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, revealing his strong jaw once more, his lips subtly pursing as he frowned in concentration. A flame continued to seethe deep within LaCroix's stomach. Maybe, instead of bringing about a painful final death, he would break him. Yes, there was a certain appeal to the idea - disciplining that damned smirk away, harrowing him until the ferocity in those eyes burned out to emptiness and regret. The beast would look most pleasing in collar and chains, he would wager. A universe of possibilities stretched before him yet lay a hair's breadth from his reach, obstructed by a dawdling neonate, a pretentious savage and a lid that would not open.

He tore his gaze away from the other man, closed his eyes and sighed. _All in due time._


End file.
